A Mandatory Alliance
by Provocative Envy
Summary: COMPLETE: A mandatory correspondence with a foreign wizarding school and a chance encounter with two Gryffindors start a chain of events that leaves Draco Malfoy reaching an inevitable conclusion: he is madly in love with Hermione Granger. HG/DM.
1. Chapter One

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

Author's Note: This is a reproduction of a story I wrote about a year ago on a previous account. The story itself wasn't taken off, but my penname was frozen when I was (unfairly) reported to the administration for, if I recall correctly, excessive swearing in another fic. I came across this a few nights ago in an old notebook and fondly recalled writing it; I decided to edit it a bit to fit my current writing style and post it.

OOO

**CHAPTER ONE**

To: Unknown Pen Pal

I may be mean, hypocritical, ridiculous, and blond, but if there is one thing I am not, it's misunderstood. I rarely pretend to be something I'm not, and if I do, I have a damn good reason for it.

For instance, I may act like an angelic perfectionist whilst in the presence of my overbearing father, or when I'm putting false notions of my emotional suffering in Dumbledore's head for my own sick, twisted amusement when he attempts to offer his support in my "time of need". I'm an asshole to the first degree, and I don't deny it. I just wish stupid little girls like Pansy Parkinson would stop chasing after me so they can "lick my sentimental scars." 'Lick' being the operative word.

More or less, I have very little to complain about in my life of luxury, superiority, and house elves; I get the occasional problem, but what adolescent on the verge of going evil for all eternity doesn't? So far, the only real issue I've ever had was deciding whether or not to murder Harry Potter and his dumbass lackeys. Much to my father's dismay, I seem to have completely missed the point of the empowering speeches he feels it's necessary to give me before I leave for school every year.

These long, dreary spectacles consist of loud reassurances that if I "just happen" to let my knife slip during dinner one night and kill off the entirety of Gryffindor house, he wouldn't hold it against me. In fact, he might even buy me that new racing broom that came out so I could flee as quickly as possible from the fascist Hogwarts professors. It's at this time that I usually point out that there's a reason I'm a seeker: I'm not exactly renowned for a disability in holding on to things. I actually suggested once that he employ Neville Longbottom as the instigator of one of these "accidents". Unfortunately for my father, I've never seen his face go quite that shade of red. Shocking contrast to that platinum hair he was generous enough to pass on to me. (Yes, I've gotten quite enough renditions of "Whose That Beach Blonde Girl?". So shove off.)

Despite my moral rectitude when in the face of wiping out those brave, loyal lions, I'm not exactly the nicest of gentlemen. I take genuine pleasure in making first years cry, and those sneaky smirks I manage to set in place whenever I'm around the Dream Team actually _are_ as sinister as they seem. I'm not allowed to be a Death Eater yet, but as soon as I graduate my forearm will bear the mark that deranged men like my father take pride in. There's no use in attempting to get out of that, and I'm far too lazy to bother trying.

Nonetheless, I like to think that at times I can be a good person. That when it comes down to it, I'll do the right thing. I have no idea when this confrontation will occur, but I'm positive that it will. My defining moment will certainly be significant, and I plan to milk it for all it's worth when it finally happens.

My mother always told me that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. I've always thought this utter nonsense, since in my mind it's clearly obvious what you do when you have lemons: you throw them at people. Preferably Pothead, Weasel, and the previously-bucktoothed Beaver. I'm not stupid enough to contradict my frighteningly sensitive mother on that though, so I've yet to get her to be reasonable. Besides, I think she has a rather dangerous obsession with non-alcoholic beverages, so I like to let her believe that the rest of the population will indeed always choose the sickly sweet yellow substance over the highly amusing debauchery of Potter's glasses. Alas, I don't think she'd find Weasley doubled over in pain nearly as entertaining as normal, sane people would. And so my fantasies remain in my head, where I expand upon them gleefully and wistfully: how I wish life would give me some lemons!

Ahem. Back the point of my mother's age-old anecdote: you take things as they come, and don't fret over situations you can't really help. I think I misinterpreted her meaning on this one, but I'll barrel on anyways. You see, every time she said this to me I had visions of pelting my enemies with the aforementioned citrus fruit, and so my original understanding of it is a bit foggy. Nonetheless, I still think that she meant to not bother preparing for things since something always screws them up anyways. For instance, in her lemon debacle, I personally suggest that it's implied you expected oranges, or apples, or bananas, rather than lemons, and that life giving you lemons was utterly surprising and dreadful. (What if you'd wanted to make apple juice instead of lemonade?) Which brings me back to the focus of my treatise on my mother's wisdom: being prepared is for boring, bushy-haired freaks like Granger, since people like me, who are naturally superior, always come out on top anyways. Honestly, if you don't have it, don't pretend to flaunt it. Er, somehow I think I misconstrued that one too. Damn.

Whatever, though. As warped as my perceptions may be, they've gotten me through life unscathed, for the most part, and I intend to live by them for the rest of my natural existence. Once I'm dead, I may take up poetry, or croquet, which would undoubtedly broaden my horizons and possibly double my political influence. Or at least that's what my mallet-wielding father says. But let's remember that he also runs around blasting innocent people into the air and prancing down streets with large groups of middle-aged men in masks, so I don't think I should trust him. Besides, he grows lemon trees, and we all know my opinions on _that._

Pansy Parkinson once told me that I was an arrogant, selfish little brat who didn't care one whit for the rest of the world, and certainly not for _her_. I realize now that she probably meant for me to argue with her so that we could make up and then have hot, steamy, make-up sex in her parent's bed. But I found her description of me so vividly accurate that I simply stood up and shook her hand, expounding upon the brilliance of her depiction. She'd then burst into tears and fled from the room, wailing about my indifference and lack of appreciation. I'm still confused, however, as to what I should have been appreciative or grateful of: she slept with half the bloody school, so I don't think she could have possibly been referring to the sex.

Other than that one little spat, our relationship is just peachy. We talk _all_ the time, the snogging's great, and my father approves of her. Although, now that I think about it, I usually end up snogging her for all England just to shut her up, and my father only really likes her because _her_ father is one of those madmen with wands who thinks no one knows what they're doing when they magically appear in empty cornfields, or graveyards. Sometimes I really wish Potter would just finish off that creepy bloke with the snake so I could get some peace and quiet. Whenever I'm home my father is usually laughing evilly and plotting a sixteen year old boy's demise, which is actually very, very pathetic when you really sit and think about it.

But back to Pansy. I'm not quite sure why I keep her around, since she's both ugly and stupid, and rarely contributes any real usefulness in my life. All she's really there for is to laugh at my witticisms, and point at the person I'm making fun of while snorting like a goddamn crack whore with a bag of powdered sugar. It used to be fairly hilarious to watch Pansy's peanut-sized brain try to process the insult I'd hurled in the direction of my victim, but as of late it's merely gotten sad. Maybe I've gone soft, but it's just not as much fun as it used to be to witness her incomprehension.

If I had a grain of honor, I'd break up with her now, and quit leading her on and fueling her dreams of marriage and blonde babies and money. But then she wouldn't be around anymore, and I'd lack a female crony to giggle incessantly at my jokes. Nonetheless, it would be twice as fulfilling to give her a bullshit speech about "just being friends" and bring her to tears. What a shocking dilemma.

From: Your Obnoxiously Perfect Pen Pal, D.M.

OOO

Draco Malfoy reread his first letter, grinned in satisfaction, and sealed the paper with steaming red wax. Since he didn't know who it was going to, he left the front of the makeshift envelope blank, admiring the creamy white surface of the parchment as his thoughts drifted to this pointless "unification-of-international-wizarding-schools" scheme Dumbledore had decided was necessary to everyone's emotional well-being. The senile old man really was beyond all hope of recovery if he genuinely believed a few anonymous letters in a mandatory correspondence would solve all the hostility that had been brewing for centuries between the schools.

Draco had written freely about all of his secrets and problems, thinking the entire situation was a farce and a facsimile of a sham. When Dumbledore had announced the plan, he had, in actuality, thought it was the psychotic headmaster's idea of a joke. But then the professors had posted reminders all over the halls about the deadline for the first letter, and he'd grudgingly admitted that it was, indeed, real. And so he'd started his first draft, sparing the recipient none of his sarcasm or sadism. If Dumbledore wanted other young witches and wizards to learn to accept him, they'd better damn well be open-minded.

Standing up and yawning, Draco glanced over at his clock and was alarmed to discover that dinner had started. Snatching up the parchment and walking briskly towards the Great Hall, he stopped at the wooden box outside the Slytherin common room. Studying the object from every angle, he surmised that the opening at the top was where he was to deposit his letter. Without hesitation he slid the paper through the slot and went on his way to dinner, whistling the theme song to _Friends_ and not even looking back.

OOO


	2. Chapter Two

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWO**

To: A Self-Absorbed Prick Named D.M.

I must admit that I was absolutely appalled after reading your letter. When our headmaster had told us about the correspondence with your school, I had been excited by the prospect of forging a friendship with a foreign wizard. But I hadn't gotten past the first few sentences of your introduction before I realized that I want nothing to do with students from your school if you're all like that.

All you did was talk about yourself and your opinions on completely pointless things like lemons and how lemonade is the spawn of Satan, or whatever it was you insisted was universal law. And the disrespect with which you regard your father's work, which he's obviously very passionate about, astounds me! However, I'm willing to give you one more chance to prove your decency, and so I'll pretend that first letter never even happened.

Okay. Let's start over.

I can't give you my name, since that's against the rules, and frankly I don't want you to know my name since I fear you're a psychotic stalker-freak who may "find it in the goodness of his heart" to slaughter me in my sleep. Anyways, I'm a seventh year witch at an academy in Russia, but was born and raised in the United States. I enjoy playing ping pong and baking muffins, and was quite hurt by your heartless description of croquet and poetry, since I find both to be most commendable pastimes. Indeed, your father seems like a wise man if he harbors a fondness for either pursuit.

I know that my past must utterly fascinate you, being that you're probably wondering what an American witch is doing in Russia, so I'd love to share some of my history with you. I am the daughter of a Russian immigrant and a muggle chiropractor from southern California. My father, the Russian, is a wizard, and my mother, the chiropractor…well, isn't. I didn't know my Russian father existed until I was ten, and it was time to send me off to a wizarding school. My mother, coincidentally, also had no idea she'd been raising a magical being, and when was finally alerted to the knowledge, was more than happy to ship me off to the opposite side of the world. As I'm sure you can tell by my sunny and optimistic disposition, I am not bitter or resentful of this abandonment in the least, since my mother was a back-obsessed control freak who couldn't accept people for who they really were.

Yes, well, that's my story. If you have any questions for me, please feel free to ask. Unlike my close-minded bitch of a mother I'm very open and a simply easy-breezy person to get along with. I'd love to know more about you, and look forward to your next letter!

From: A Witch Who Loves to Smile!

OOO

Draco stared down at the pink, vanilla-scented parchment in his hand, his mouth hanging open in absolute astonishment and his eyes glazed over in boredom. Ping pong? Muffin baking? Was she serious? After pondering the question for a few moments, he surmised that she was, indeed, serious: who else would have defended a muggle-murdering sycophant like his father?

Shaking his head in bewilderment, Draco crumpled the letter into a ball, stuffing it in his pocket with some relief. At least he wouldn't have to stare at dancing smiley faces for the next hour of Potions. It was as he was muttering a spell to quiet the squealing characters charmed onto the letter, that he felt someone poke his back, and he turned around to glare at Hermione Granger.

"What, Granger?" he asked rudely, his eyebrows drawn together in annoyance.

"I'm just wondering why you've all but thrown away your pen pal's letter! Aren't you the least bit excited? I mean, these are people from _different parts of the world_! The world! Not just England, or Ireland, or the Continent," she answered him rather passionately, her wise, brown eyes sparkling with excitement, her smile so broad it was a wonder she could even speak. "But America, or China, or Australia…the possibilities are endless! Think of what we could _learn_ from them," she continued in an animated whisper.

Draco merely blinked at her assessment of the situation, surprised that she was confiding in him as if they were the closest of friends. Surely she knew he detested her and wished her to die? Glancing at her lively demeanor and honest, open eyes, he decided that it must have slipped her mind. Or her sanity had made a mad dash for Potter's psyche, since he had shredded his letter before he'd even opened it. Smart man.

"Granger," Draco asked her reasonably, "why are you talking to me as if we're all chummy and whatnot?" He thought this was a logical turn for the conversation, since as far as he was aware she hadn't cursed him yet, or threatened him, or any number of violent, usually well-deserved, actions. But Hermione apparently disagreed, for her expression instantly went from an infectious, thrilled sort of elation to disappointed and deceptively indifferent.

"I suppose I forgot it was you I was talking to," she responded tightly, her posture very stiff as she sat back in her chair.

"Good luck on your short-term memory loss, then," Draco returned lazily, flipping his hair with evident vanity as he resumed his original position of cheerful-letter-desecrating.

The majority of the rest of the Potions lesson went on uneventful, but with ten minutes left of class, Draco felt another tap on his shoulder. At that particular moment, he had been deciding on which charm to use to torch the blasted parchment, which didn't seem to want to shut up, and so his temper was more than a little frayed. Frustrated and angry, he whipped his head around to scour the victim of his wrath with a cleverly-worded insult. He was utterly shocked when he saw that no one was there.

His eyes darted all around the surrounding area, thinking that Granger had probably just accidentally knocked him with her elbow when moving to go bond with Potter. Yet a quick peek at Potter and Weasley's table showed him that she wasn't there. Indeed, Potter and Weasley were staring blankly at the chalk board, their faces squashed into their palms as they attempted to keep their heads up. But no Granger.

Narrowing his eyes in irritation, Draco returned his attention back to the letter which wouldn't bloody well _inflame_, and resumed his plotting of the murder of "A Witch Who Loves To Smile!". Perhaps if he enclosed some powdered arsenic in his next "friendly letter"…

At the very same moment he was envisioning the gory massacre of a faceless witch in sunglasses and a "California Is For Lovers" t-shirt, he felt another poke at the base of his back. Snarling slightly as he turned around again, he caught a glimpse of bushy brown hair ducking out the way. Smiling in a self-satisfied manner, Draco pretended to be looking around the table again, all the while very certain that Granger was hiding underneath her desk.

"I caught you, you devilish little-" he cut himself off when he noticed that she wasn't there.

_What the hell?_ Draco thought to himself feverishly, _Am I losing my mind? _He quickly faced the front of the room again, panicked that he was starting to get delusional.

_Oh God, this is how it must have started with Father_, he said to himself desperately, suddenly seeing with a startling clarity how his future would be. He'd start singing in the shower, just like Father, and then he'd become infatuated with the castration of lab rats, just like his father, and before anyone knew it he'd be running around in the dead of night in his nightgown, just like his father…

Taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself, he resolved to take one more look underneath the desk behind him, since Granger must have just blended in with the…er…floor.

It was as he was preparing himself both mentally and emotionally to turn back around that he felt one past poke…on his ass. Only, it was more like a squeeze…

"Holy Mother of God!" Draco shouted into the silent classroom, leaping to his feet and grabbing his butt.

Severus Snape, Potions professor and "impartial" supporter of Draco and his studies, stood at the front of the room, stunned.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape asked him slowly, his voice devoid of any cruelty whatsoever.

"Malfoy's got a stick up his arse!" Ron Weasley yelled suddenly, bringing him and Potter to hysterics on the dungeon floor. Draco stuttered wordlessly, a traumatized look on his face that brought the rest of the class into fits of laughter as well. With a gulp and squeal of humiliation, Draco scurried from the room, his hands still firmly guarding his buttocks.

Meanwhile, a young brunette sat underneath her desk, hidden by an Invisibility Cloak she'd stolen from her best friend, and giggled at the success of her immature, yet oddly fulfilling, prank.

OOO


	3. Chapter Three

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THREE**

To: A Deranged Skitso Obsessed With Baking

Let's get some things straight, O-One-Who-Fears-Chiropractors.

First, don't lecture me about "disrespecting" my father. I wasn't exaggerating when I commented upon his various levels of insanity. The man actually is legally demented. In fact, now that I think about, you and him should really meet. I just _know_ he'd love you. You two could bake muffins and play ping-pong all day long and make babies that have severe personality disorders. Ha. I think I may throw up.

Second, I don't care about your neuroticism and hatred of your mother. Frankly, I think it would be better for the world if you just killed the woman so she couldn't break people's backs, or whatever it is she does. Indeed, if I were you I'd be tempted to lock her in a closet for the rest of her natural existence. Which wouldn't be long, seeing as though she'd starve to death in a closet without food or water. Or, if she just happened to be in a closet with food, she'd get very fat from lack of exercise and die anyways since her arteries would get clogged or she'd simply not fit in the closet any longer. See what happens to obese people? They die.

Anyways, back to my point. I have _no desire_ whatsoever to bond with you through our fruitless correspondence, seeing as that you actually defended my pyromaniac/irrational/emotionally disturbed father. I may be the son of an unreasonable ass, but I'll be damned if _I'm_ labeled the unreasonable ass. He's ten times worse than me, which is saying _a lot_. Oh and that reminds me: don't presume to insult my kindness and goodwill towards the remainder of the human population. If you recall, I told you in my first letter that I was a slimy git who most of my school wishes would suffer from spasmodic convulsions. (They mainly wish I would suffer from spasmodic convulsions for two reasons: a) so they can point and laugh at me; b) so they can nurture the dream that during one of these seizures I get maimed by a candlestick and bleed to death.)

Ahem. I have a proposal for you: since it's mandatory that we write these BLASTED letters, I recommend that we put empty pieces of parchment in the envelopes, rather than actually bother to _talk_ about stuff. Agreed? Agreed. Have a nice life, you psychotic fun-hinderer.

From: Someone Who Wants You To Be Attacked By Evil Flobberworms

P.S. I have a tiny little suggestion for you. Your mother? The one whom your obviously bitter about since she kicked you out when she found out you weren't normal? (Not that she had to discover you were a witch for that to happen.) Yeah, well I think you should reconcile with her. Since she's one of those mad muggle doctors, and you're an obviously unhinged, fucked-up-in-the-head retard, you'd appear to get along smashingly. So go talk to her about your "problems" and maybe she'll take you back. I think you desperately need the medical care.

OOO

Draco Malfoy glared at the back of Hermione Granger's head all through breakfast, and then all through Transfiguration, and then all through lunch, charms, _and_ Care of Magical Creatures, before either of his two lackeys noticed.

"Hey, Draco? Why do you keep staring at the Mudblood?" Goyle asked stupidly, scratching his "sophisticated goatee" as his slowly blinking eyes traveled from Draco to Hermione.

"I don't know, Goyle," Draco replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes at his "friend's" idiocy.

"Is it because you're tormented by visions of her in tasteful lingerie with sleep-tousled hair and want to make mad, passionate love underneath the starlit sky? And then _film_ it?" Crabbe suddenly asked, completely and out of nowhere. There was a beat of silence, and then, "I don't know where that came from. Must have been reading too many of Mum's magazines over the summer," Crabbe mumbled, kicking over a rock with his shoe and inspecting the grass underneath it.

"Whatever. Goyle, in answer to your question, I've been spearing the chit with my murderous gaze all day because I _hate_ her and want her to be _dissected_ _alive_ by violent unicorns," Draco said dully, slightly mollified by his outburst.

"Oh."

"Wait a tick. Crabbe, did you just say you were _reading_ over the summer? I had no idea you were literate," Malfoy exclaimed in astonishment, turning his attention to Crabbe for the first time all day.

"Yep," Crabbe responded proudly, his head bobbing up and down as he grinned broadly at his leader.

"Wonders will never cease," Draco said faintly, shaking his head at the knowledge that Crabbe had probably learned his new skill through women's magazines. "So, Crabbe, exactly how do you get a guy to climax _before_ you?"

Much to Draco's chagrin, Crabbe actually answered.

OOO


	4. Chapter Four

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FOUR**

To: A Self-Centered Egomaniac in Dire Need of a Good Shag

Once again, your letter has left me speechless. Your condescension is insulting as well as uncalled for! I tried my very hardest to start things off in a civil manner, but you've made it clear that you want to take no part in this foreign exchange program. And your comments about my mother are ungrounded and _stupid_, you narcissistic bastard. I gave you the "Pleasantville" version of my life, hoping to shield your nonexistent virgin ears from the _horrors_ of an unwanted half-muggle witch's life. I can see I made a mistake in making everything seem simply _peachy_. Let me make amends.

I was born in East Los Angeles, California, which is, to steal a muggle term you're undoubtedly unfamiliar with, the "ghetto." It's a slum and a drive-by shooting zone, where rapists, transvestites, and mass-murderers hang out and "chill." My mother, the overbearing chiropractor, had hit rough times when her pregnancy with me had prevented her from treating patients; her financial situation when I was born was less than satisfactory. My father, the aloof Russian who I'm starting to think forced intercourse on my convent-raised mother, didn't know of my existence until I was eleven, when the Russian Ministry of Magic decided to let him in on the secret: he'd fathered a child, who had inherited a magical ability. No one was very pleased with the situation, I'm afraid to say.

My mother was revolted that she'd been harboring a "freak" in her house all that time. (After all, think of all the food stamps she wasted.) My father was dismayed to find out that his "tryst" with my mother had actually borne fruit. The Russian Ministry was dumbstruck that they were going to have to let an _American_ into their fine institution of learning. I didn't much care either way: all I was doing was switching a life of poverty for a life of the unknown, which didn't seem all that bad. How naïve I was.

As soon as I arrived in Moscow, I was rushed into, what seemed to me, a brick wall. At the time I thought it was an attempt on my life, since in muggle movies there's always an evil Russian mafia guy who tries to kill the innocent American spy. Not that I'm a spy, but I'm assuming you catch my meaning. Anyways, I found myself in a purple plush-laden _lair_ with white tigers and little Communist men with beards running around waving wands. In the middle of all of this was my father, who was, irony of ironies, the Minister himself. As soon as he reached out to hug me, a deadly curse was fired at him by one of the bearded men, and his dead body was ravaged by hungry tigers right before my eyes. Lovely welcoming, eh?

After that, no one really knew what to do with me. They (the rest of the Ministry "officials") finally decided that it would be prudent to ship me off to school anyways, since if my magic remained uncontrolled I could destroy the world, or something. In actuality, I think they all secretly feared that I would get very angry with them and unconsciously blow them up with my uninhibited powers.

From that moment on, I've put on this façade of cheerfulness and optimism, since that's the only way it was possible for me to make friends in this godforsaken country. Obviously it won't work in any _other_ place.

From: A Witch Who Passionately Hates You

OOO

"Sir? I-I-I mean, Pr-Professor?" Neville Longbottom's quavering voice echoed throughout the dungeons, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to look up from the ground and into Severus Snape's eyes.

"Longbottom, if your question isn't remotely intelligent or worth my time, I assure you that there will be a painfully violent punishment in store for you this evening. And I won't leave it up to Filch," Snape replied silkily, his arms crossed domineeringly over his chest. Neville audibly swallowed, his hands shaking so badly that his tremors were visible even from the Slytherin side of the room. Draco Malfoy snickered at this pathetic display of weakness, surprised to discover Granger's snapping brown eyes trained on him when he chanced to turn around.

"W-w-well, y-you s-s-s-see, I have a-a-a p-p-problem w-with m-m-my p-p-potion," Neville stuttered.

"What was that, Longbottom? I couldn't understand you through your tragic speech impediment. Please repeat yourself," Snape ordered softly. Draco starting laughing at the horrorstricken expression on Neville's face, hastily turning it into a cough when he felt a sharp nudge in his ribs.

"I h-have a p-problem with m-my p-potion, S-sir," Neville said dismally.

With a world-weary sigh, Snape crossed the room and bent to look over Neville's hopeless potion. Draco, out of ear-shot of the bat-like man, whipped his head around, hitting Granger with his glossy blonde hair as he did so.

"Ouch! Watch it, Malfoy! Your precious hair obviously has razor blades in it or something," she whispered indignantly, rubbing a small cut on her cheek.

"However did you find out, Granger? Yes, I do indeed entwine fatally sharp objects into my hair for the express purpose of ridding the world of _Mudbloods_ like yourself," he spat back sarcastically.

"What is your problem, you malevolently _pathetic_ ferret? You're hallucinations that you're _better_ than me are becoming a good source of entertainment, I must say," she murmured murderously. "After all, how could I ever compare to an inbred little egomaniac like yourself who harbors a senseless prejudice against me simply because he was _told to_?" Granger was fuming, her nostrils slightly flared as she pointedly shifted her weight so that her back was to him.

Draco was speechless. Considering that he'd never been speechless before in his life, this was an excrutiatingly new sensation, one which he wasn't certain he liked. _Granger_ had rendered him silent, and he was confused as to why. The words "senseless prejudice" and "simply because he was told to" echoed through his mind. Was that really all it was? Was he just like his insane father? Running around and following a random concept just because it was easier?

These troubled thoughts plagued him for the rest of the class. The more he contemplated it, the more likely it seemed that Granger had been completely right when she'd insinuated his lazy bigotry.

"Granger," he called out, running after her just as she began to head towards Potter and Weasley.

"What?" she demanded rudely, her teeth clenched as she stared with unabashed dislike at the pale-haired chauvinist.

"I just wanted to…well…am I really just like my father?" Draco asked in a very small voice. Her face softened visibly, the angry lines fading into the smooth skin of an adolescent girl on the brink of womanhood.

"Yes, Malfoy, you are," she responded evenly.

"I-I am?" he gulped out, his heart sinking.

"Indeed." There was nothing else to be said, it seemed. She spun around on her heel to walk back to the two boys waiting for her down the corridor.

Draco Malfoy didn't attempt to stop her. He was utterly bereft at the knowledge that he was a replica of the man he so loved to degrade. The man he often insulted in those stupid foreign exchange letters. The man he'd vowed to never, _ever_ be like. Yet there he was, identical to him and oblivious to it. And _Granger_ had had to point it out to him!

He wanted to blame her for his turmoil, to write an angst-ridden letter of complaint to his sadistic father and have her bludgeoned to death in the night by house elves. But that wouldn't solve his problem. _She_ was the one to alert him to his Lucius-like tendencies, so _she_ should be the one to resolve the situation. All he'd have to do is find a way to blackmail her into helping him.

OOO

"Ron, stop! What are you-" Hermione Granger's protests were cut off by the callused hand that clamped itself over her mouth. Ron Weasley threw himself on top of her, replacing his palm with his lips, much to Hermione's disgust.

"Oomph-mer-ehrrrr-eggg-ahhhh!" she moaned into his mouth, horrified by the wet, slimy sensation invading her mouth.

_Dear God that can't actually be his tongue…_, she prayed agitatedly, her arms flailing and her legs kicking out to prevent his onslaught of unwanted amorous intentions. He was too big, though, and she was too small, and nothing she did was stopping him.

"Well, well, well, what's this? A romantic tryst? A feverish sexual encounter with the Beaver and the Weasel?" Draco Malfoy's triumphant and highly amused voice cut through the suddenly awkward silence like a knife through butter. Hermione quit her struggling, closing her eyes in anguish. She knew what would come next: _blackmail_.

Ron heaved himself off of her, his frightened, guilty eyes darting from her to Malfoy. With all the bravery and honor of a Gryffindor, he made a mad dash for the door to the empty classroom, flinging it open and sprinting away from his near-rape victim and the slightly evil boy who'd caught him.

"Aren't you going to go and chase him?" Hermione asked nervously. Malfoy wordlessly shook his head, approaching her stealthily.

"I don't care about the dimwitted fire-crotch," he replied smoothly.

"Then why don't you let me go? You know, since you don't care?" she inquired.

"You're not the dimwitted fire-crotch, are you? I thought not. You see, I have a proposition for you," he answered easily.

"Oh?" she countered, her voice cracking.

"Yes. I promise on my grandfather's grave that I won't tell anyone about your…extracurricular activities, so long as you let me follow you around and try to become more…_wholesome_."

There was a very long moment of utter silence, broken only by Granger's sharp intake of breath.

"What are you _on_?"

"Nothing. I swear. I'm serious, Granger," he said, mildly irritated by her reaction. Dear God, was he that much of a prick?

"Well in that case…I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm sure you understand that I could…twist the facts around a bit, you know, make into a steamy threesome between you, Weasley, and…oh, I don't know, _Snape_?" He grinned inwardly at the sickened expression on her face.

"Oh for the…alright you have a deal. You can…be my _lackey_, if you insist. But," she threatened dangerously, "if I hear so much as a _word_ about something even _remotely_ like…this, then I will _personally_ see that your intestines are pulled out of your _arse_ and fed to some of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts."

He was vaguely impressed by her use of imagery, but was loathe to compliment her, despite his desire to become _good_.

"First thing's first, then," she instructed him, businesslike. "We need to cut your hair."

"_What_?" he said, aghast.

"Well, you can't expect to be a decent person when you've got hair nearly as long as mine, can you? You're a boy, not a hermaphrodite. At least, I hope you're not," she added as an afterthought.

"I _really_ fail to see how my hair could have anything to do with my disposition," Draco argued weakly.

"Well you've been a Lucius-clone all your life, so you're judgment isn't exactly credible, I hate to say," she said loftily. He caught the twitch of her lips and realized that she was _enjoying_ this. Two could play this game, Draco thought wickedly.

"Oh, alright. I'll let you cut my hair. But," he said forcefully, cutting of her clap of delight, "I have to add on to our little deal. For every thing you change about me, be it physical or otherwise, I get to alter something about you as well. Therefore, if you cut my hair, I want to dye your hair…_blonde_." He smirked at the murderous glare she sent him.

"I think not, Malfoy. The agreement was that I help you become a better person, right? I don't see how my hair color is relevant."

"Which is why you're not a Slytherin. Surely you know it's part of my devious personality to milk this for all it's worth?"

"I refuse to let you touch my hair," she answered stoutly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, Pansy! You'll never guess what I came across today! The Mudblood and the Weasel, along with Dumbledore, were in a _devilishly_ intimate position today! I didn't even know such contortions were possible!" Draco pretended to turn to leave the classroom, and wasn't surprised when Granger grabbed his arm to pull him back.

"_Fine_," she hissed. "You can dye my hair…_blonde_." She gave an involuntary shudder at this ascension, and Draco rubbed his hands together. This would be _fun_.

OOO


	5. Chapter Five

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FIVE**

To: A Russo-American Witch Who Needs Psychotherapy

Well. I never thought I'd ever so much as _think_ these words, let alone write them down on paper, but here goes: I'm sorry. I honestly had no idea a person's life could be so…tragic, which is actually very understandable since it would explain your numerous personality disorders/mental deficiencies. (Ha! And you thought I was going to get all sentimental and empathetic, didn't you?)

But seriously: your tale of misery and woe nearly brought tears to my eyes; _nearly_. As I'm sure you've discovered, I'm a creature of little moral rectitude and even less compassion. Therefore, don't bother expecting sobs of remorse from me. Frankly, I don't care if you witnessed your unknown Russian-Minister father person be brutally murdered or not; I've seen things that would probably move you to _slit your goddamn wrists_, rather than plague the good, hard-working people of Russia with your _fake_ cheerfulness and…sickening ping-pong/baking obsessions. I shudder to so much as _think_ what you'd be doing if your father hadn't kicked the bucket when he did.

Anyhow, I am in a _delightfully_ good mood at the moment, largely due to a "business" dealing I've made with a witch who I used to despise with all the hatred that suitor-character harbored for Odysseus in that _Odyssey_ book/novel/spawn-of-bloody-Satan-literary-spectacle. Now that I think about, I actually do still want her to be beaten up by a horde of giant vampires, but she's far too smart for that to actually occur, much to my dismay. Let me explain further, my sad little pen-pal:

I recently underwent some kind of _epiphany_, realizing that I was actually quite a bit like my old man back home, which made me both nauseous and suicidal. And so I determined to enlist the help of the aforementioned witch who is the paragon of all things _virtuous_ and _good_ and so very _Gryffindor_-_like_. (Ahem. She actually would have refused to assist me had I not caught her in a…_compromising_ situation. Blackmail really is the epitome of brilliance.) She started off her "project" by cutting my precious blonde hair, which I can tell you I was extremely unhappy about. I got my revenge though: I dyed her hair blonde and she looks absolutely _dreadful_. (Insert evil laugh and pantomime hand washing.)

Nonetheless, I'm still waiting impatiently for her next petty act of improvement and vengeance; I have endless ideas of what I can do to make her life a living hell. (Example: Give her a mustache; make Crabbe and Goyle follow her around spouting articles from _Cosmo_; etc.) The enforced entourage one has merit, don't you think?

From: The Boy Who You'll Probably Slaughter One Particularly Angst-Ridden Insomnia-Plagued Night Of Sleeplessness And _Torment_

OOO

Hermione Granger had thought the blonde hair would be the worst of Malfoy's retribution schemes, but this was _definitely_ nine or so levels of hell deeper. In response to her clever idea of making him read Greek philosophy to broaden his intellectual and emotional horizons, he'd instructed Crabbe and Goyle with a mere snap of his fingers to never leave her side, even when she visited the bloody _lavatory_. There was nothing quite so horrifying as getting out of the shower in the morning to find two, hulking brutes drooling at you as one excitedly highlighted sections of the latest _Red Book_.

Clenching her teeth in suppressed fury, Hermione stalked into the Great Hall for breakfast, Crabbe and Goyle a few steps behind her. She thought they might have been discussing the merits of eating _beef_ rather than _Filet Mignon_, but she could have been wrong: after all, the grunting and jabbing finger references to the culinary magazine Crabbe had managed to apprehend could have been an argument over whether there were words or pictures in the publication.

Sitting down with a sigh, she wearily watched the two boys clumsily sit themselves on either side of her, their faces showing confusion a the array of utensils spread before them. From across the Hall, she caught sight of the shorn-haired Malfoy smirking at her, his pale face flushed with glee at her distress. And that's when it hit her, her thick platinum hair swinging in front of her face as she glanced at Ron.

_Fire-crotch_, she thought humorously, her mind keying in on the word "fire". Of course. Fire. _Fight fire with fire_, was the anecdote, if she remembered correctly. But what if she did the sensible thing and fought fire with water? What would happen then? Would Malfoy just take it, or would he think of even more sensationally nefarious plots to ruin her life?

_Never know until you try_, she said to herself, taking a deep breath before pasting on a sunny smile and turning towards Crabbe.

"So-Vincent is it?-yes, well, _Vincent_, I completely agree with you," she said cheerily, completely unaware of what she was claiming to agree with him on.

"You do?" he asked dumbly.

"Yeah, you do? Draco never agrees with us," Goyle put in sullenly, his inch-thick eyebrows lowering in indignation.

"Well, that's because he's an narcissistic _jackass_ who can't tell his arse from his elbow," Hermione replied thoughtlessly, anger flaring up once again as she noted the superior grin Malfoy shot her.

"Huh?" came the dull response from both Crabbe and Goyle.

"Nevermind," she said quickly. "Hey, what do you say we go spend some quality time in the library? You know, catch up on those _Glamour_ articles that I've missed out on?" she coaxed, sheer willpower being the only force keeping her eye from twitching.

"Library?" Goyle questioned, his forehead wrinkling as he thought long and hard about the word he'd probably never heard before.

"Yeah, stupid," Crabbe said intelligently, smacking Goyle on the back of the head. "You know, that place where Draco used to tell us they kept rabid hamsters? He once told us there was a group of unstable Gryffindors in there that wanted to behead us and steal our _eyelashes_," he confided to Hermione.

"Oh…well, you know, that's not really true, I go there all the time, and look at me!" she said gaily, irritatingly watching the two boys' eyes fall on her _horrid_ hair. "Oh, don't bother the hair, you know Draco, always…_joking_….around…" she trailed off, swallowing nervously at the idea of spending her Saturday willingly with Crabbe and Goyle.

"Ok," they said simultaneously, standing up and waiting for her with all the patience of the simple-minded.

Shaking her head at her easy manipulation, she threw her head back and laughed at one of Crabbe's inane comments, throwing her arms around the shoulders of the two boys as she left the Great Hall. To her satisfaction, Malfoy had crossed his arms in front of his chest, a glare of consternation aimed in her direction. This was not going as it was supposed to.

OOO


	6. Chapter Six

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SIX**

To: A Hopeless, Egocentric _Nazi_ Who _Will_ Be Murdered In His Sleep If He Doesn't Learn to Quit Insulting The Russo-American Witch Who Will Vow To Kill Him Soon And Doesn't Renege On Her Promises

You really are the progeny of Satan. Or Cher. Or a _chiropractor_. (I could get really mean and start spouting American politics with the hope of _seriously_ insulting you, if you're a Michaela, I mean Michael, Moore fan, but I really don't think you're a terrorist, or have a collection of home-made nuclear weapons, or wear a turban to church.)

Anyways, I think that whatever you're going to do to that poor girl is absolutely horrid. She sounds lovely, mainly because it's obvious she harbors a _great_ aversion for you, and I only wish I'd gotten her for a…pen pal. I really am loathe to call you a pen pal. You don't write anything nice, and you're certainly not a _pal_. More like a blood-sucking, sardonically _witty_ cynic with exceedingly insensitive and _callous_ tendencies. Oooh, I really do hate you. I don't even _know_ you and I hate you. I don't even know if you're a bloody first year or not. (If you are, please try a bit harder in the future to be nicer to the big, angry, violent, and _powerful_ seventh year who lives in Russia, where murder might be legal. I say 'might' because I've only been arrested once and I have no idea what for, and since those men killed my father with no consequences, murder might very well be legal. I just don't know.)

Whatever. You're not worth talking to anymore. I poured out my _very soul_ and you just threw it back at me. _Threw it back at me_. Why? I don't understand how I could open up to you like that, so…_openly_, and you just…act like nothing happened! I mean, if you had shown just an _ounce_ of sympathy to my plight, maybe I would be congratulating you on your "triumph" over that girl. Who you hate. I say, what's her name? I know these things are supposed to confidential, but I'm curious. If you tell me, I can put a name to the face (which, if you'd be so kind, could you describe for me?) of my new idol.

Do tell her that she has a fan club at my school. A few of my chums and myself are even going make matching pins to go on our uniforms!

From: Oh, Does It Even Matter?

P.S. I hate you.

OOO

_Aristotle? Does _anyone_ actually care? _Draco Malfoy asked himself, his eyes glazing over as he reread the same sentence for the umpteenth time. _Granger needs to be shot. Or sat on by Crabbe and Goyle. And Pansy,_ he chortled to himself, slamming the book shut and tossing it over his shoulder. Much to his amusement, he heard it hit someone.

"Malfoy! What the hell?" It was Granger. Without Crabbe and Goyle.

"Granger? Where's your escort?" At Draco's words, Hermione smirked.

"Oh, well, we were just having the most delightful study session, but they got hungry, so I gave them leave to visit the kitchens," she replied easily, sitting down across from him and tossing back her blonde hair.

"Study session? With Crabbe and Goyle?" he asked in disbelief.

"Oh, yes. Ever since you've left them with me we've all just become the best of friends," Hermione answered.

"Yeah, well, you're other 'bestest friends' tried to rape you, so we can't start judging yet, now can we?" Draco shot back testily, angry that she had managed to win over Crabbe and Goyle.

"Ah ha! So you admit it wasn't consensual!" she said loudly, jabbing a finger in the air.

"Well, of course. But only to you."

"I certainly feel special _now_," she returned wryly, mock-pouting and crossing her arms over her chest.

"You should; I've never in my life seen someone look quite as bad as a blonde," Draco said, grinning at her irritated expression.

"That reminds me, I have another idea for our…project."

"Oh? Do tell me, I have numerous plans for you." Quirking an eyebrow at him, Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Whatever, Malfoy. I was going to suggest that we get you to start treating _women_ better, since you're a sexist prick who thinks he _owns_ everyone." Draco glared at her, snorting at her observation.

"Indeed. How do you expect to do this? Lock me in a closet with Pansy? Or, God forbid, _you_?" he inquired mildly.

"Well…I believe in progression, and…I don't think that if we were to simply tell you to be nice to girls you'd do it. I think you'd have to learn to be nice to your inferiors before you can be nice to your equals." Hermione paused, biting her lip in thought. "Yes, so my plan was to make you work with the house-elves for a day."

"_What?_ Work? Are you _insane_?" Draco burst out, enraged.

"Don't belittle my brilliance just because you're not as intelligent as me," she responded petulantly.

"Not as intelligent as…! I'll get to that later. The point is: Malfoys don't work."

"It's just for a day," she needled him.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Never."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Good! Then I'll meet you in front of the Great Hall at six tomorrow morning!" Hermione stood up, a false smile on her face.

"Don't think I'm letting you off easy, Granger. Oh, no. You see…you'll be joining me in this manual labor…thing."

"You know, Malfoy, I'm actually starting to think you really _do_ want to be a better person," Hermione commented, her eyes pensive.

"No, I just don't want to end up in the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's, which is where I'll be visiting my father soon. Mother's already force-feeding him his medication, you know."

"Oh."

"Exactly. Have a good evening, Granger; tomorrow will be hell in a hand basket, that much I can assure you."

OOO


	7. Chapter Seven

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

To: An Overemotional Bitch Who Should Acquire A Sense Of Humor Before She Gets Shot

I must admit to being slightly irritated by your letter. That could have been due to that blasted girl and her "ideas", though. Get this: she wants me to work alongside house-elves tomorrow! _House-elves!_ I haven't actually come into direct contact with one of those since I was ten! And it bit me on the arse in an act of defiance, so that doesn't even really count since I didn't have a choice! Ahem. Yes, well, go ahead and start your _Hermione-bloody-Granger_ fan clubs. Just make sure you get huge hair and an encyclopedia as your mascots. Or whatever.

No, but seriously. Hermione Granger is…God, there are _no words_ in the English language to describe that evil…_thing._ I mean, she purposely makes my life a living hell, all out of some perverse _scheme of revenge_. Or whatever. I don't even know. And the people she hangs out with…! You know Hairy Pothead? Or, as the invariably insane call him, Harry Potter? Yeah, well his mentally retarded sidekick, Romping Weasel (oh, fine, Ronald Weasley) are her best friends. And the furry woodland creature, it turns out, is a psycho rapist who takes advantage of nefariously bushy-haired Gryffindors in empty classrooms.

_Anyways_, so the Weasel tried to force himself upon Granger, and I walked in on them since I was on my way to lunch and decided to stalk the chit. Well, I knew that she was fruitlessly struggling and clawing and kicking her way to an intact hymen, but I couldn't help but use her pre-dick-ament for my own…purposes. Ahem. But, yeah, so I catch them, the Weasel runs for his life, the small bulge in his pants rather sickening in its…less-than-satisfactory stature (oh the woes of prepubescent urges!), and I'm left alone with Granger. She's _terrified_, probably more of me than her attacker, and so I do the decent thing and blackmail her.

And then she made me cut my hair, which is just so completely _amoral_ that I really don't know how she sleeps at night. (Assuming R.W. isn't frolicking over to her dormitory in the wee hours of the morning.) Yes, but so I dyed her bushy brown hair _blonde_, making her look like some special-ed version of Madonna, and in retaliation she forced Greek philosophy on me by the _armful_. And so I then merely ordered my two friends, Crabbe and Goyle, who are complete nuisances as neither are literate, to follow her around and never let her out of their sight. They did their job admirably well for a few days, but then that vile creature (Granger) got all clever on me and _befriended_ them. (How she managed to become "intimate" with two boys who I wasn't aware possessed personalities is beyond me. Still.)

So she told them to stop following her, and they listened. And then I threw a book at her and she told me that the next "step to recovery" was to work with house-elves, so I'd learn to "commiserate with my inferiors" or something. Naturally, I demanded she work with me. The question is, what do I do to make her miserable? I hate her so much I'm starting to _shake_.

Those maddeningly _wise_ brown eyes that are so bloody huge it makes me wonder how much of her face can actually be left for that stupid mouth of hers which just…God, she just…I shall scream if I don't torture her tomorrow. I have to make this good. Really, really, really, really good. I suppose I could bribe Weasel into streaking through the hallways or something as we're cleaning, or working, or _whatever_ it is we're doing. Yes. That's an excellent idea. You know, Overemotional Bitch Who Should Acquire A Sense Of Humor Before She Gets Shot, you're not that bad to confide things to. In fact, I may write a fake apology to go along with this just so I can keep writing my life story to you. Have a nice day. I think.

From: Boy Who Wants To Torch Your Hermione Granger Fan Club and All of Its Pathetic Followers

OOO

"Malfoy, you won't get anywhere cleaning those pans unless you actually put them in water, you know," Hermione Granger's amused voice broke through his sweat-induced reverie. Throwing down the salad bowl in a fit of anger, Draco Malfoy wiped his desiccated hands on his robes, glaring at Hermione from underneath long, blond eyelashes.

"I _still_ don't understand why we can't use magic like normal people," he snarled impetuously, roughly pointing to the wand in his back pocket.

"Because," she explained as patiently as she could, all the while suppressing the desire to strangle him, "house-elves aren't allowed wands to clean things, so why should we get that privilege? Besides," she added wickedly, "I think it's marvelously entertaining to watch you splash around in the sink like that. You have no bloody idea what you're doing."

"You like watching me splash around in a sink, Granger? I didn't know you had a porn fetish. You should have told me earlier and we could have skipped this whole no-body-hair, water-running-slowly-down-my-bare-arms business," Malfoy remarked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow to reinforce his innuendo.

"Oh, yes, Malfoy, I desperately want you," she replied, deadpanned.

"No need to be bashful, Granger. You're certainly not alone," he said loftily, admiring his warped reflection in the back of a copper skillet.

"Oh, for the love of…could you _be_ any more arrogant?"

"Loads," he responded easily. She sighed.

"Whatever. Malfoy, get back to cleaning those…remember, you're bettering yourself through all this. Do you really want to end up heavily medicated before the age of forty?" Hermione reminded him. He growled low in his throat at her comment.

"Why don't you _help_ a little, Granger? Instead of lecturing me like my mother?"

"Because _I_ already know how to do this the magic-free way," she retorted. "Wait a tick; did you say your mother lectures you? I had no idea! Malfoy? Get discipline? Ha-ha!" she laughed.

Draco clenched his teeth, his dark mood blackening even more. Glancing at the sink full of foamy water before him, he was struck with inspiration. With a dunk of his hands, and a flick of his soapy wrist, Hermione's arm was splattered with moisture.

"_You didn't_," she gasped, her eyes alight with fury.

"Oh, believe me, _I did_," he said shot back cunningly.

"Well, in that case…" With a mutter under her breath, and a small wand movement, a bucket of water launched itself across the floor and dumped itself on Draco's head.

"You just completely destroyed the _labor_ that was my hair-gel," he hissed, slowly wiping the suds from his eyes.

"Terribly sorry. I had no idea you wanted to look so dashing for me," she giggled. Her smile disappeared as a wet, dirty mop smacked her across the face. "Oh, it's _on_ now," she mumbled fiercely.

OOO


	8. Chapter Eight

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**_Danish Pastry 28_**: Your reviews never cease to astonish me. If you're a writer, than I'm positive you'll understand why I'm enraptured with your input. When I sit down and begin the long, arduous process of equating my personal reflections and feelings with that of an imaginary character, I can only hope that the final product is one that a general audience can both relate to and find their own little piece of invaluable meaning in. The fact that you take the time to genuinely concentrate on a piece, contemplating its purpose in the story as a whole, is wonderful. But to answer your question, these two stories are the only fanfiction I've ever really written with any seriousness. Up until about a month ago, I primarily wrote original fiction. I've already had several poems published, and once I finish college (my major is creative writing with a minor in history) I have every intention of approaching publishers for any novels I might write. Fanfiction is strictly for my own personal amusement; writing is genuinely fun for me and it gives me great satisfaction to know that someone other than me finds joy in my work. Thanks for both your reviews and your suggestion.

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

To: A Boy Who Is So Obviously in Love I'm Almost Prepared to Be Sorry for Him

Oh, you poor, tortured young soul! Deep in those _never-ending_ throes of love and completely unaware of it! Don't bother getting all huffy and indignant. I think, subconsciously, that you've suspected your "feelings" all along. You should have reread your letter, dear boy. ("And those _eyes_!") Believe me when I say you wouldn't have been describing her "maddeningly _wise_ brown eyes" with such fervency if you didn't harbor some kind of warped affection/desire/_desperate longing_ for her.

And I know that you're undoubtedly going to spend the next seventy years of your life denying this, so don't think I'm going to go be stupid and play matchmaker for you and this girl. Hermione Granger, you said her name was? Sounds like a marvelous girl. I really do want to meet her; if only because she deserves a bloody medal for getting you to fall in love. But enough of that: you'll never admit any such thing, so I'll shut up.

Whatever. I'm over writing to you, since you never even acknowledge my letters. I'm not here to simply _listen_ to you ramble about your problems, you know. I have feelings, and you're _hurting them_. So go off and get tendonitis in your wrist, or whatever it is you do in your spare time. (Ha-ha. That was funny. Tendonitis in your wrist? Do you get it? From…you know…yeah. Whatever.)

From: A Girl Who Doesn't Give a Flying Fuck About Your Life

OOO

"I hate you," Hermione Granger mumbled thickly, her weary voice punctuated by a loud "Oomph!" from Draco as she elbowed him in the groin.

"Goddamn it, Granger! What the hell was that for?" He glared at her angrily, as he massaged his southernmost bodily appendages.

"You got soap in my hair," she responded innocently, shrugging her shoulders.

"Yeah, well maybe it's a sign that you should _wash it more_," he shot back, still rubbing the sore spot she had so harshly released her violent impulses upon.

"Malfoy, would you like to be alone for…whatever it is you're doing?" she smirked, nodding her head towards his roving hand.

"No. If you leave your mouth open long enough, I'm sure I can figure something else out," he replied easily, stretching his arms over his head and grinning evilly. Not unexpectedly, she rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure."

"Well, it's not like you'd refuse me, Granger. _Not_," he emphasized, "that I'd ever want you in the first place."

"Well, Malfoy, I must say congratulations."

"For what?"

"For figuring out what everyone else seems to have missed."

"Which is your passionate lust for me?"

"Exactly," she said blankly. "My life will be incomplete unless I bear your children, get your white little arse underneath my sheets, and feel your pulsating--"

"Enough, Granger," he cut in, his pale cheeks flamed with color at her unfinished description.

"So sorry. Did I deflower your virginal ears?"

"Believe me when I say _no part of me_ is a virgin," he responded tightly.

"Oh _do_ stop teasing me like that, Malfoy! I don't think my traitorous body can take it."

"I _have_ always wanted to hear you scream, you know," he said thoughtfully.

"Well, you never will," she said abruptly, turning on her heel to begin the tedious task of restacking the dishes in the kitchen. The house elves had long been gone to clean the dormitories, and even though it was such a late hour, Hermione and Draco were still there, mainly because he had refused to do any real work.

"Sure, Granger. You still know you want me," he said breezily.

"Never."  
"Oh, yes you do. Everyone does."

"No, not _everyone does_. I certainly don't."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"I can prove it," Draco insisted, stepping closer, his eyes flashing at the harsh beating his ego was taking at her denial.

"Oh? Pray tell, how can you possibly prove something that isn't true? Who would ever want you? You vain, evil, selfish, stupid, lazy, _fuckwit_ bast--"

Her tirade was cut off by the unusual sensation of his lips pressed against hers. He pushed down hard, his kiss one of ferocity rather than affection. Hermione felt a strange tingle go up and down her spine, the first signs of desire, and broke out in a cold sweat as she realized who was igniting those senses. With a gasp, she pulled her head back, her lips swollen and red, her brown eyes dark with longing.

"How _dare_ you," she breathed, completely furious.

"How dare I what? Prove you wrong? Admit it, Granger. You want me," he answered nonchalantly.

"No, I don't," she retorted, her face flushed with rage, "and…I can't even believe _you_ would be capable of being as utterly insolent as you just were. Malfoy, you don't just kiss someone to prove a fucking point. Especially when your "point" was ungrounded and _wrong_."

"I don't see what was wrong with it. You seemed to react pretty well," he murmured, leaning forward again.

"_It was disrespectful_, _you oblivious asshole_!" she shouted, causing him to pull back in surprise.

"I-I…what?" he replied dumbly.

"_I am not, and will never be, one of your little Slytherin groupies,_" she spat venomously, her jaw clenched as he gaped at her. "You had _no right_ to come near me, let alone…_kiss me!_ If you had maybe _meant it_ I might not be _as_ mad, but you…you were just _proving a fucking point_, like a stupid little kiss could just automatically make you right! You disgust me, Malfoy!"

"I-I…what?"

"_Leave_."

"I-I…what?"

"_Just go_. _Now_."

"I-I…what?"

"That is _it!_ What are you, retarded? Do you not know what the words 'go' and 'leave' and 'now' mean? Are you dense as well as egotistical? Huh? Or are you waiting for one of the house elves to come back so you can kiss them, too? To _prove_ to the world that _everyone_ wants you?"

"I-I…what?"

"You're _pathetic_, do you know that? Not _everyone_ is in love with you! In fact, look around every once in awhile, maybe notice some people other than yourself, and you'll see that, in actuality, _no one does!_ Half the school wants you to die!"

"I-I…what?"

"Never mind, Malfoy. Please, just go. I don't even want to look at you right now," Hermione said tiredly, suddenly exhausted with the whole sorry situation.

"I-I…what?"

"Consider our little deal over, alright? Change my hair to its normal color, call your lackeys back, give me my books, and I'll die happy if I never talk to you again," she stipulated, turning on her heel to stalk away.

"Did she call me retarded?" he asked the empty kitchen in bewilderment.

OOO

Draco was confused. All he'd done was kiss her, for God's sake! She acted as if he'd _raped_ her! One fucking kiss and the world ends. Honestly.

And it wasn't as if she hadn't enjoyed it. _He_ certainly had. He couldn't even remember what exactly had made him do it. Had it been her adamant refusal to admit her attraction to him? Had it really been just to prove her wrong?

Furrowing his brow in thought, he collapsed onto a nearby stool, yelping when he felt a splinter worm its way into his arse.

"Bloody hell," he cursed in the silence, rubbing his butt. His hand came into contact with a folded piece of unopened parchment: the foreign-exchange letter he hadn't bothered to read earlier that morning. Thinking it would take his mind off of Hermione's reaction to his kiss, he ripped the paper open and began to read. When he'd finished, the letter slid from his hands, fluttering to the damp floor as he stared at the wall opposite him in dawning comprehension.

Had he kissed her out of nowhere like that because he'd _wanted _to? Because he secretly _loved_ her? Draco considered this notion for a few minutes, mulling over his befuddled response to _her_ reaction to _his_ kiss. It would certainly make the last half hour or so more plausible. But…_love_ the Mudblood, Granger?

He scoffed, coming to his senses. Picking up the missive in clammy hands, he stuffed it back into his pocket. He started to walk towards the door, his feet landing in soapy puddles more than once. As he reached the portrait to leave, he surveyed the mess of the kitchen. He couldn't very well leave it like that. It would just prove her right. Sighing, he slowly began to clean it up, cursing her and her bloody temperament all the while.

OOO


	9. Chapter Nine

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER NINE**

To: Someone Who Obviously Sent Me the Wrong Letter

You're on _cocaine_ if you actually believe what you wrote to me.

From: The Guy Who Wants Nothing To Do With You Now That You've Proved Yourself To Be Under The Influence Of Heavier Illegal Substances Than It Is Within His Power To Acquire At The Present Time, And Is Therefore Embittered About

OOO

Draco Malfoy was in an utterly _foul_ mood, and it was made all the worse by his acknowledgement that his predicament was entirely his fault: he'd gone and lost the goddamn letter that the neurotic Russian had written him. The one that _falsely_ and _blatantly_ accused him of loving a Mudblood. The very same Mudblood that had given him one of the best kisses of his life and then proceeded to use _numerous_ expletives to describe how _violated_ and _dirty_ she felt.

If anyone other than an illiterate house-elf had found that letter, his life was virtually over. Not only would everyone hate him for ignoring the centuries-old, unspoken rules that forbade inter-house dating, he was quite certain the entirety of Gryffindor house would try to kill him. And even if the lot of them _were_ incompetent retards who were probably incapable of executing "The Perfect Murder", in large groups it was possible they just might succeed in ending his life. Which was a self-deprecating thought in the extreme.

Understandably, Draco hunted through every square inch of the kitchen, his eyes scouring the corners that a broom had so obviously missed. To no avail. That stupid little piece of paper just _wouldn't_ be found.

It wasn't until he saw it hanging out of Ron Weasley's back pocket that he realized his searching had indeed been fruitless.

OOO

"Harry," Ron Weasley whispered to his best friend, his voice quaking with excitement, "You'll _never_ guess what I just found in the kitchens." The raven-haired boy he was speaking to turned to look at him and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"What? A veela who'll actually do you?" Harry asked with a smirk, laughing and ducking as Ron swung a punch at him.

"No, Harry, I think we all know that no one will _ever_ find one of those," Hermione put in, her smile fading into a frown at the smug expression on Ron's face.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so quick to make a joke out of this, Hermione," he replied complacently, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of parchment.

"What do you mean?" she asked carefully, eyeing the stained, dirty paper warily as Ron grinned and held it up to the light to read:

_"To: A Boy Who Is So Obviously In Love I'm Almost Prepared To Be Sorry For Him. Oh, you poor, tortured young soul! Deep in those never-ending throes of love and completely unaware of it! Don't bother getting all huffy and indignant. I think, subconsciously, that you've suspected your "feelings" all along. You should have reread your letter, dear boy. ("And those eyes!") Believe me when I say you wouldn't have been describing her "maddeningly wise brown eyes" with such fervency if you didn't harbor some kind of warped affection/desire/desperate longing for her._

_And I know that you're undoubtedly going to spend the next seventy years of your life denying this, so don't think I'm going to go be stupid and play matchmaker for you and this girl. Hermione Granger, you said her name was? Sounds like a marvelous girl. I really do want to meet her; if only because she deserves a bloody medal for getting you to fall in love. But enough of that: you'll never admit any such thing, so I'll shut up._

_Whatever. I'm over writing to you, since you never even acknowledge my letters. I'm not here to simply listen to you ramble about your problems, you know. I have feelings, and you're hurting them. So go off and get tendonitis in your wrist, or whatever it is you do in your spare time. (Haha. That was funny. Tendonitis in your wrist? Do you get it? From…you know…yeah. Whatever.) From: A Girl Who Doesn't Give A Flying Fuck About Your Life."_

There was a long silence after he'd finished. Hermione had turned white, her skin drained of all color as she stared at Ron. Harry was gaping at him, his mouth hanging open as Ron merely nodded and beamed and nodded at both of them.

"What…where…_what the hell?_" Hermione finally burst out with, her blithering idiocy very uncharacteristic.

"Oh, be a good sport about it all, Hermione," Ron said cheerily, waving his hand dismissively at her dismay. "You've got nothing to worry about. I've already pegged Justin Finch-Fletchley as the boy in question. It's so _obvious_ I don't know why you're upset. Just go and find the bloke and tell him how you feel," he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. Hermione's jaw dropped of its own accord.

How Ron had come to that conclusion, she'd never guess; there was absolutely _no_ evidence whatsoever that Justin was the boy the letter was addressed to. In fact, it sounded the exact _opposite_ of what someone would say to a boy like Justin, who was overbearing, to be sure, but a nice enough fellow besides all that. Certainly not the type to warrant an angry response to one of his letters. Ron's logic actually disturbed her quite a bit.

"Ron," she responded slowly, "I'm very concerned at the moment. You're making no sense."

"Oh, come on! The clues are all here! You just have to read between the bloody lines!"

"Harry?" she said, exasperated, "Will you make him see reason?"

"Well," he answered, looking from her to Ron, "I don't see anything wrong with Ron's explanation."

"You've got to be kidding me," she choked out.

"No," the two boys said at once, "I think it's _you_ who's missing something. This letter's meant for Justin Finch-Fletchley, I'm telling you."

"Ron! I don't care who the blasted letter's from! I'm just worried about how and why you came to that…supposition!"

"No need to get testy, Hermione, I'm just trying to help," Ron said defensively.

"Look, I'm sorry, can we just forget about this?"

"No," Ron and Harry replied, sniffing as they spun on their heels. "We think you need to reflect on what you've said to us and to set your affairs with Justin straight," they threw over their shoulders.

"This is the bloody twilight zone," she mumbled to herself, turning around and running head-first into Draco Malfoy, who'd been standing behind a pillar and listening to the entire conversation.

OOO


	10. Chapter Ten

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TEN**

To: A Boy Whose Read "Pure Sunshine" One Too Many Times

You know, I'm starting to notice a pattern in your letters. First, you start them all off by telling me I'm stupid, psychotic, or emotionally unhealthy. You then proceed to say that it doesn't matter which mental disorder I possess since you don't care. _Then_ you explain whatever petty problems you currently have in your life. And, naturally, you end them all with some kind of drug reference. Which concerns me, since I do believe your general unpleasantness might be due to an addiction of yours pertaining to those "illegal substances" you're so fond of littering throughout your accusations.

Your last letter, though it naturally had a 'cocaine' in there, was different. You wrote merely one sentence, and I confess to some disappointment that you didn't reflect on what you felt regarding my previous missive to you. I have a sneaking suspicion that you're starting to entertain thoughts about my previous insinuation, which excites me beyond all reason. I can hardly wait for your second-hand declarations of undying love. In fact, I'm going to pound this into your skull just so you make your decision faster: YOU LOVE HER! YOU LOVE HER! YOU LOVE HER! YOU LOVE HER!

By God, but it's fun making fun of you.

From: The Girl Who Is Writing This Whilst Smirking

OOO

Draco Malfoy was still recovering from his shock-induced seizure when _she_ barreled into him, quite breaking his concentration and startling him into anger rather than confusion.

"_God_, Granger, why are you always running into me? I know I'm attractive, but to be honest with you, _Finch-Fletchley_ has a better chance with me than you do," he snapped at her, sulkily rubbing the sore spot on his upper arm.

"You heard that?" she asked numbly, shutting her eyes in despair.

"Every last word," he replied, mildly surprised she hadn't immediately accused him of being the recipient of such an…_explicitly_ horrendous letter.

"What…what are you going to do?" she gulped out.

"Tell Pansy," he said easily.

Perhaps it was the condescension with which he addressed her, or the maddening way he inspected his fingernails, or even the irritatingly _perfect_ way a single lock of bright blonde hair fell into his eyes that made her say it. She couldn't recall what primal force encouraged her to open her mouth and blurt it out:

"I'll tell people you're gay!"

"What the hell?" came the bemused response.

"Yes! I'll tell _everyone_ that I found you and Finch-Fletchley in a compromising position in the third-floor broom closet," she continued quickly, blinking rapidly and breathing erratically.

"You forget, Granger, that it was _I_ who found _you_ in a 'compromising position' not too long ago. I blackmailed you into making me 'nice' or whatever and you completely failed at that so now I'm just pissed and want to see you die of humiliation," he countered, furrowing his brow at the confident expression on her face.

"And _you_ forget, Malfoy, that I can use your previous blackmail to my advantage in this dirty little scenario," she returned firmly, her lips twitching at the vacant look in his eyes.

"What are you on about? Are you going to confess to your tryst with Weasley so my 'blackmail' is worthless? That would just make it worse, Granger. Then you'd be both a whore _and_ a whore with bad taste. I assure you that no one in this school will _ever _ condone a sexual relationship with a Weasley or a Finch-Fletchley. Especially not at the same time."

Hermione rolled her eyes at Draco's stupidity, wishing, not for the first time, that he possessed at least a small modicum of intelligence.

"You're such an _idiot_."

"No I'm not. You're the one going on about blackmailing me for blackmail."

"How did you know I was going to say that?" she asked wonderingly.

"I'm telepathic."

"Yeah, and Trelawney can really read tea leaves," Hermione snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"She can, actually. She predicted once that I would soon undergo a '_fuzzy_' alteration back in fourth year. A week later I got turned into a ferret."

"Which was certainly one of your brighter moments."

"Shut the hell up."

"No, really," she answered, amused. "I really thought that you _glowed_ as a squealing rodent."

"Touching, Granger. I'll be sure to ask McGonnagal to transfigure you into a one so you can really _experience_ the joy and excitement of breathing through a wet nose. A highlight of my life, no doubt."

"I might feel sorry for you if you weren't such an ass."

"What?"

"Yeah. You're so clueless it's rather sad. Unfortunately," she added, "you're Malfoy and therefore need to be brought down. So on with my plan."

"Do continue, Granger. I'm simply _dying_ of curiosity."

"Will do. Okay, Malfoy, you realize that you asked me a few weeks ago to assist you in becoming 'nicer'?"

"So?"

"Well, if it were to somehow leak out that you no longer wanted to be an evil, Slytherin prick, you're reputation would be ruined. And then no one would believe you if you started making up rumors about me. You'd be that pathetic freak in the corner, trying to get his old 'bad-boy' status back by spreading lame-ass stories about the girl who brought about his social demise," she explained nonchalantly, grinning inwardly at her own sneakiness.

Draco stared at her in both amazement and unabashed fury. He was impressed at her Slytherin-like use of cunning to turn the situation around, but angry that she'd actually blackmail him for wanting to become a better person. Sure, he'd pretty much abandoned that avenue after a few weeks, but he'd tried, hadn't? He decided to play on her Gryffindor-goodness.

"How can you say something like that? How can you so much as _think_ of wanting to…to _punish_ me for aspiring to become _nicer_? I mean…I poured out my very _soul_ to you and you're going to tell everyone just so you can get some petty revenge?" he demanded dramatically, whipping his hair back and gazing poignantly at her.

_Any minute now_, Draco thought gleefully, all the while maintaining his sad, expectant glare. _Any minute now and she'll break down, just like Pansy, just like Padma, just like Potter…my acting skills are just too good for these simple minded-_

"Does anyone _ever_ believe your bullshit, Malfoy?" she interrupted his mental wandering, a small giggle escaping her mouth at the dumbstruck stare he was giving her.

"What-what do you mean?" he squeaked out, earning him another throaty chuckle.

"I _mean_," she replied brightly, "that you could have been on a bloody soap opera with that last performance. I've known you for seven years, if you recall. Like I could actually think you were remorseful and still vying to be wholesome?" she pointed out reasonably.

"Um…yes?"

"Wrong. I have every intention of exploiting your newfound desire for 'clean-living'. Say what you want about me and Ron, or me and Justin--which, by the way, is _not_ true--because no one will believe you. You're going to be the sore loser for once, Malfoy, and I'm going to love every minute of it."

Draco watched her turn triumphantly to leave as if in slow motion, his eyes desperately searching the corridor for an object with which to launch at her retreating form. Dismally noting the bare walls and empty floor, he wearily admitted defeat.

_What am I doing?_ he asked himself grimly. _I deserve it anyways_.

"Yes, you do," came her voice from down the hall. It was then that he realized she'd never turned the corner and that he'd spoken out loud.

"How…what….eh?"

"Don't look so hopeful, Malfoy. I'm still telling everyone. I'm just somewhat surprised you possess the perception to understand that you really _do_ deserve it."

And she really was surprised. When she'd chanced a look back and seen his slumped, beaten form, something in her had stretched a bit too far for comfort. When she'd heard him whisper that he deserved it, that something had snapped. She was, of course, still going to tell the world that he wanted to be like a Gryffindor, but she wasn't entirely sure she _wanted_ to. Wasn't that the point of _being_ a Gryffindor? Fighting fire with water?

"Do what you will, Granger. It doesn't even matter anymore."

Draco closed his eyes and smiled to himself as he heard her footsteps echo down the hallway. He hoped with every fiber of his being that his ploy of indifference had worked and that she was, even then, questioning her motives. It really was wonderful when you always managed to win.

OOO


	11. Chapter Eleven

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

To: An Analytical Neurotic Who's Obsessed with _Me_

Your most recent letter disturbed me. You've obviously spent a lot of time thinking about me, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that kind of scrutiny. Listen, I understand that I'm a young, attractive, talented, intelligent, and overall perfect member of the male species, but really; that doesn't give you the right to practically _stalk_ me. You know my bloody _writing_ techniques, for God's sake.

On to the last portion of your…outburst. I do not, and will never, love Hermione Granger. In my opinion, she's like one of those bug-type-things that just doesn't _die_. Well, I don't actually want her dead, but I'm sure you understand. If she just…disappeared for a bit, I wouldn't mind. I might, in fact, celebrate. But nonetheless, I really do wish you wouldn't go about writing potentially incriminating letters like that. Lucky for me, the dimwit who found that other one you wrote came up with some completely random bloke in Hufflepuff as the recipient. I'm still not sure how he logically came to the conclusion that Justin Finch-Fletchley was the boy who "loved" Hermione, but it _was_ fire-crotch; perhaps his brain got all addled out of sexual frustration.

Anyways, now that I've gotten through all that, I have a favor to ask of you. I'm completely aware that a reasonable person would have already burned this paper, but I'm putting faith in your curiosity about what I could have to say. So listen. I would be much obliged if you were to write a letter to Granger, telling her that you suspect I'm in the throes of depression, or something. Anything to make her feel _guilty_ and _shameful_ and _remorseful_. Why, you may ask? Simple. She's threatened to tell the school that I want to be "nice", which would do _irreparable_ damage to my reputation. And so I've decided to prey on her Gryffindor goodness by instilling painstaking _self-reproach_ inside her fragile, fragile heart. I know: I'm brilliant.

And so I beg you to help me in my latest evil scheme. Please? Pretty please? I'll send you pictures of me without my shirt on. I _know_ that's an offer you cannot refuse.

From: The Flawless Teenaged Boy-Wonder

P.S. If you write the letter…I'll let you be on top.

OOO

Hermione had never intended to let this whole mess get so out of hand. Not once had she even _considered_ that being blackmailed by Draco Malfoy could lead to such horrible…complications. In retrospect, she realized that that had been her biggest mistake: she hadn't bothered to formulate a backup plan. And so there she was, alone and confused, in the back of the dusty, old library.

Oh, she wasn't completely stupid. She knew that he'd meant to make her question her own judgment so that she wouldn't destroy his reputation. But he'd sounded so _sincere_ when he'd forlornly told her that it didn't even matter anymore.

_Stop it, Hermione_, she ordered herself, grumbling in frustration at her inability to finally get the ultimate revenge on the platinum blonde freak she called her enemy.

"Oh, bother it," she said loudly, standing up so quickly her chair scraped backwards and attracted the attention of the entirety of the library.

_Wonderful, _she thought hysterically, _now everyone thinks I'm talking to myself._.

"Well," she heard a boy say thoughtfully, "always knew that one would lose it. It was just a matter of time."

Rolling her eyes at the vast majority of the school's inanity, Hermione flew from the room in a fit of aggravation, her hair flying behind her and her cheeks flushed bright red from exertion. She stumbled through the empty corridors blindly, the entirety of her thoughts focused on Draco Malfoy. He was so infuriatingly _obnoxious_, with that _superior_ blonde hair and that _evil_ little smirk. Oh, he just needed to be _scalped_ or something…

"Granger?" came the voice of the One-Who-Needed-To-Be-Scalped.

"Oh, for the love of…what the hell do you want now?" she replied in exasperation.

"Well…you were running and I was going to let you pass me by, but then you stopped without warning and started muttering to yourself and clenching your fists so I thought it would only be right if I offered my assistance in your obvious time of need," he said in one long breath.

"You're going to rub this in my face for the next few months, aren't you," she guessed matter-of-factly.

"Well, duh. What did you expect? I need to do _something_ to make your slandering of my reputation seem a pathetic bout of bitterness and jealousy," he pointed out reasonably.

"Why would I _ever_ be jealous of you? The bitterness I can understand, since you _did_ after all make those poor house elves clean up your mess in the kitchens."

"Actually, Granger, I cleaned it up after you left," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes as he spoke.

"Oh come off it, Malfoy. You'll always be a stupid prick with--what did you just say?" she asked in bewilderment.

"I _said_ that I cleaned it up after you left. It didn't seem right to leave the kitchen like that…"

"_Oh my God_," she breathed, eyes wide. "You…you…you did something _nice_, Malfoy. Something charitable and good and…and…_kind_."

"I did not," he immediately refuted.

"Yes you did!"

"No I didn't"

"Yes you did."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"This is horribly childish."

"Well it seems to happen every time we speak to each other so maybe we should just...stop talking."

"Think I haven't tried avoiding you for the past six years? It doesn't seem to be working anymore. We literally run into each other every few hours," Hermione said wearily, smiling wryly at the boy who she really _had_ managed to transform.

"Yeah, well you'd laugh for _hours_ if you heard my pen pal's theory on our rivalry," he sighed, not noticing Hermione's sudden stiffening.

"Your pen pal's theory?" she repeated.

_Oh, shit, _Draco thought, wincing as he realized his mistake.

"Uh, yeah, she, uh, thinks that, uh, we, uh…hate each other."

"Good try, Malfoy. That letter Ron found was meant for you, wasn't it? And you…you were going to play it off on poor Justin. All so you could get some kind of petty revenge on me. I really shouldn't have put it past you," she said sadly, shaking her head as he stuttered an excuse.

"Granger…I didn't mean it like that…I just--"

"Why do you care what I think about it, Malfoy? It's never bothered you before that I think you're a nasty little jackass. Why the change of heart?" she inquired curiously, baffled by his insistence that he had meant no harm.

"I don't care about _that_," he answered flippantly. "I just don't want you to tell people about my bargain with you. God only knows what you'd say if you were questioned. Probably make up something about my sexual disorientation which _led _to my desire to become wholesome and whatnot."

"You'll never change, will you?" she said quietly after a beat of silence, her face solemn with regret. "You'll always, _always_, be the same self-centered prick whose interests lie only in how far he can get in life."

"And what's wrong with that, pray tell?" he snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking.

"What's wrong with it is that you don't stop to think about the people you've literally _trampled_ over to get to where you are. _Nothing_ you do benefits anyone but yourself, and for that reason alone it won't ever matter how wealthy you become, or how powerful. You know why? Because you'll never get an ounce of respect. Think people will care that you own a quidditch team, or can afford to buy a dragon farm? Oh, you'll certainly have notoriety. But _never_ respect. And without that, you can never be truly happy."

"Quit preaching at me, Granger," he said nastily, barely even flinching at the disgust in her voice. "You'll be begging to be in my inner circle when I'm rich, famous, and fabulously powerful."

"No. I won't. And the people that _will_ be begging to be in your inner circle won't ever be worth the effort expended to remember their fucking names. Which I doubt you'll do anyways," she responded shortly, turning on her heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

OOO

Draco stood there, alone, for a long time. He reflected on what she had said to him, and, much to his surprise, he realized that the strange, gnawing sensation in his stomach was guilt. He shouldn't have ever used a lie to blackmail her into staying quiet; that was a new low, even for him.

But he still couldn't get over how _condescending_ she'd managed to be when denouncing the entirety of his lifestyle. She'd made him feel pathetic and useless, a pitiful creature who could never even be worthy of her attention.

She'd made him feel as if he deserved it.

Which could only mean one thing: he'd never deserve her. And it was then, probably too late, that the truth dawned on him: he'd always wanted to deserve her.

OOO


	12. Chapter Twelve

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

To: I Don't Give a Fuck Who You Are

You know what? You don't deserve this girl.

You write about her like you love her at first, and then you turn around and _prove_ to me that you won't _ever _be worthy of her.

Write her a letter telling her you're depressed? Oh, yes, _of course_, I forgot entirely that you and I are the _best _of friends. There is no doubt in my mind that I should most definitely do you this monstrosity of a favor and plead stupidity on your behalf. Note the sarcasm, fuckwit.

I'll tell you what I _will_ do, however: warn her. Oh, you can be sure that she'll receive a letter from me. But I'm being honest. She'll know that you really _do_ love her, but will never admit it; she'll know all about what you said about her and her pranks; she'll know what you asked me to do as well as what you already _did_. I won't spare you a single truth. You know why?

You don't deserve it.

From: Like You'd Bother to Remember My Name

P.S. If I don't get a return letter saying you've fixed all of this, I really _will_ do what I threatened. Really. I swear I will.

OOO

In the space of a single day Draco Malfoy's life went to hell.

He'd had the epiphany of a lifetime after receiving the humiliation of a lifetime. The girl he'd wasted six entire years hating was the only one he'd ever want.

She was intelligent, funny, and kind.

Yet she wasn't exactly _nice_. Not really. She was…_good_. She had morals, and she stuck by them. She didn't let anyone push her into thinking or doing anything she didn't believe in.

And that's when it hit him, the real reason he was undeniably in love with her, why he'd never get over her and why he'd never want to: she wasn't a hypocrite.

She wasn't like his father, who couldn't ever admit what he was, who lurked in the shadows and pretended to be loyal to those who possessed sanity. She wasn't like Potter, who tried too damn hard to be the hero-boy. And she certainly wasn't like him, who didn't even _know_.

She was Hermione Granger, the Prefect, the Head Girl, the know-it-all.

And she was perfect.

But only for him.

OOO

Hermione Granger was miserable.

Something was _missing_, something she'd never bothered to consider as a constant. Something she wasn't certain she even wanted back.

_You mean 'someone', _she thought to herself bleakly, slamming her head against the corner table in the library.

He was like a drug. Addictive, satisfying, and…harmful. Utterly dangerous, actually. He was the biggest ass she'd ever had the misfortune to meet and she wanted him _back_. She wanted his inane comments and his delightful confusion when she yelled at him; she wanted his selfishness and his arrogance; she even wanted that horrible little smirk he adopted whenever he argued with her. It didn't matter that the only thing they had in common was their mutual hatred; his flaws were what made him Draco Malfoy. And she loved him for it all.

_"Oh my God,"_ she whispered, a small smile curving her lips upwards. "I _love_ him."

She scraped her chair backwards, not caring that it fell into an unsuspecting first year kneeling on the floor to get a book on flobberworms. She suddenly _had _to see him, if only just to reassure herself that he was there. That he would _always_ be there.

She didn't even notice that he had been standing right behind her the entire time.

OOO

_"Oh my God. I love him."_

_"Oh my God. I love him."_

_"Oh my God. I love him."_

Those six simple words echoed through Draco's head as he watched her stumble from the library. He'd walked in to get a book for potions and seen her staring at the wall opposite her seat, a bereft expression on her face. And so he'd mustered the courage to confront her with his feelings, not even caring that there was a higher chance of her slaughtering him on the spot than professing her undying love. He'd approached her just as she'd banged her head repeatedly against the table, but had held back his hand when she'd whipped her head back up. It was then that she'd whispered that fateful statement. The statement that had shattered his world.

He felt like he was falling, faster and faster, colors spinning wildly around him as he continued to drop. Pieces of his life were cracking and breaking right before his eyes, and every image that was distorted to the point of obliteration included her face: sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing…but mostly frowning. He barely had a single memory of her that wasn't unhappy.

A burst of harsh laughter escaped his throat as that thought crossed his mind. And that was a strong foundation for falling in love? For _being_ in love? She didn't even love him back. She probably loved Pothead, or Fire-Crotch, or…Finch-Fletchley? Was that why she had been so upset to discover that letter had been meant for him instead of the Hufflepuff?

_Figures I'd be pathetic enough to be beat out by a Hufflepuff, _he thought dismally.

OOO

It was as he was contemplating the slow, painful dismemberment of Justin Finch-Fletchley that night that he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"What?" he barked, not bothering to look to see who it was.

"Draco?" came the deep, manly voice of Vincent Crabbe.

"What, O-Large-And-Loyal-Lackey?" he replied in a monotone.

"Well…uh…you look…sad. Yeah. Sad," said Crabbe slowly.

"That's because Granger is dating Finch-Fletchley and…oh, I just can't stand it, Crabbe! I mean, what did I ever do to deserve this? _What?_" Draco burst out, finally craning his neck to meet the startlingly wise gaze of Crabbe.

"You love the Mudblood?"

"Don't call her that," he said automatically.

"I knew you loved her all along, you know."

"And how is that, Crabbe? You can't even figure out how to tie your bloody shoes," he snapped back.

"It was in your eyes, Draco. _Cosmo _always says that you can tell what a man is feeling by looking into his eyes. And every time you looked at her…you changed."

Draco stayed silent, reluctant to admit it was true. Because it couldn't be true. She loved Justin Finch-Fletchley, not him. And unrequited love was impossible. That was the point of falling in love, wasn't it? Why it was remarkable, so perfect?

Irony of ironies, it didn't feel very perfect at that moment.

OOO


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**A Mandatory Alliance**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Well, this is it. This turned out to be a bit shorter than I'd originally anticipated, but oh, well. I'd like to thank all of you who reviewed and read this story; I love compliments. And for anyone who cares, I'm going to start another fic within the next few days, simply because it's summer and I got sick and all my friends are leaving me for Honduras. So I'll mope and occupy myself with Harry Potter fanfiction. Thanks again _so much_ for all of you who took the time to review. I sincerely appreciate it.

OOO

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

To: One of the Many Girls Whom I Owe an Apology To

This is both very out of character for me and very difficult to write. But I must do it, for my conscience is eating away at my brain.

I'm sorry.

There. I said it. Happy? You evil, conniving little--

Ahem. Back to my original point.

You were right. I don't deserve her. The perfect girl, the golden girl, the girl I'll never be worthy of ten minutes with because she's so much _better_ than me. The girl I'm not sure I can live without anymore, but have to anyways. The girl I regret hating. The only girl who can't disappoint me. The girl I love.

Oh, you have no idea how much I wish that I'd had the fucking sense to listen to you all those…uh…days ago. How badly I want to go back in time and take my chance when I had it. Just go and redo the past few weeks and show her I'm not the massive prick she thinks I am.

But that would be lying. Since I _am_ the massive prick she thinks I am. In fact, I'm probably worse than what she thinks I am. I'm pathetic. I'm lower than pathetic. I'm…dear God, I'm nearly at _Potter's_ level of inferiority.

But to return to my original purpose, I'm apologizing for treating you almost as badly as I treated Hermione. I was insufferably rude to you, and you didn't do a thing to warrant it. I'm genuinely sorry that you had to put up with me. I'm sure you cursed your bad luck that you got me for a pen pal, huh? (Truthfully, I'm shocked you had the patience to not send some kind of powdered arsenic in one of your letters just to get rid of me. In retrospect, I would have understood.)

Nonetheless, I desperately need your advice. I realize I'm asking more than any sane person would be willing to give, but please. I beg you to forget the past.

You see, she is dating this complete _prat_ now. I finally realized that I loved her the very day she decided she loved him. And I can't do a thing about it. Well, it's actually only been about a day since I saw her in the library saying she loved him, but I'm so desperate for advice right now that I haven't mustered up the courage to leave my dormitory since then. I'm _lovesick_, dear girl.

And _goddamn_ but it felt good to admit that.

From: I'm Depressed and Possibly Suicidal So Please Reply Quickly. I Own Razor Blades, You Know. And I've Read Those Melodramatic Muggle Novels Where Anguished Teenagers Attempt to Rid Themselves of Pent-up Angst by Slicing Open Their Major Arteries, So I Know What to Do with Them.

OOO

It was as if he'd disappeared off the face of the earth. Or had been cursed into oblivion by one of the many first-years he insisted on tormenting, and no one had bothered to tell her.

Or was hiding from her, but that was an explanation she really didn't want to face. It would make her feel like a desperate stalker who was reduced to hunting down prospective boyfriends by roaming the hallways and threatening his usual cronies with painful dismemberment if they didn't tell her where he was. Not that she'd done that.

In fact, every time she approached Crabbe and demanded he give her Draco's whereabouts, he would smile secretively at her and scamper off to count rocks, or whatever it was he did when Draco wasn't around to provide entertainment. Of course, she'd only been searching for a day, but still: it was obvious he was avoiding her.

"Hermione?" Harry asked her at dinner that day.

"What?" she snapped back, stabbing her chicken with her fork repeatedly.

"Is anything wrong?" he inquired cautiously.

"Oh, life's just peachy, Harry. Why do you ask?" she replied testily.

"Because you just cracked your plate and didn't notice."

"Oh. Well, these things happen, you know. It's not like I'm some kind of violent _freak_ who breaks plates to have a smashing good time."

"Of course not, Hermione," he said kindly, petting her forearm as she seethed quietly. "I understand that things with Justin might be a little rough right now--"

"What the _hell_ is it with you people? Me and Justin? There _is_ no me and Justin! Never has been, never will be!" she shouted, prying her arm from Harry's fingers and stomping away.

Once she reached the hallway, her defenses broke down, though; her anger was forgotten and the tears started falling.

She couldn't believe that Draco would do this to her, that he would make her feel so humiliated so he could relish in a few seconds of glory. It was so unbelievably awful that she could hardly face up to it: he was abandoning her for a final victory over Harry in their stupid feud. Yet he wasn't abandoning her: there really wasn't anything he was giving up.

_Of course, _she realized, sniffling as the truth settled in. _There never was a me and him, just like there never was a me and Justin. He doesn't know what he's doing to me. _

It was her first rational thought in an entire day, and it made her feel normal. Maybe she could slowly forget about her "I love Draco Malfoy" epiphany and return to her "I am the logical bookworm" façade.

_No, _she said to herself, _you can't do that either. Because nothing can ever be the same. _

Oh, how it rankled her that the infuriating boy she couldn't bring herself to admit she loved anymore would have such a lasting effect on her. That no matter how hard she could try to deny anything ever happened, she'd have the constant reminder of her painfully clear loss of level-headedness.

Which would just make her remember why she'd tried to forget him in the first place: he hadn't loved her back.

OOO

Draco was making his way to the Great Hall for dinner when he noticed the small, huddled figure sitting against the wall across the door. He couldn't place who it was, since he was so far away, and he was curious as to who could be crying in public so shamelessly. As he edged closer, however, his breath caught.

"Hermione?" he whispered, crouching next to her.

Instead of replying, she looked up, her eyes bloodshot and her face tearstained.

"You look like a drowned rat," he told her affectionately, brushing her messy hair back from her head.

"Lovely compliment. Maybe you'd like to join me for my six o'clock wrist slitting exercise. My therapist back home says it'll do wonders for my disposition," she shot back sarcastically, narrowing her eyes and wrenching her body from his grasp. He'd never know how much it had taken out of her to accomplish that, though.

"Feisty as ever," he commented lovingly, gazing at her with unabashed longing as she remained colder than that stupid fricking iceberg that had sunk the Titanic.

"What do you want?" she demanded, turning away slightly so she didn't have to look at him.

"You," he said honestly, realizing he was finished with lying to her. It had caused him too much stress being dishonest, since she always seemed to find out.

"Yeah, and Ron can actually read," she snorted, determined not to let him see her lower lip tremble.

"Can he really?" Draco asked mildly, holding up his hands defensively as she glared at him. "I'm kidding, Hermione. But would you listen to me for a second? I just…I want to explain myself."

"Whatever."

"Alright then. I'll be blunt. I am in love with you. I spent the past twenty-four hours thinking of nothing but you, dreaming of nothing but you, _wanting_ nothing but you. I heard your voice in my head and thought I was going crazy; I replayed every word I'd ever said to you in my mind and I've been worrying and crying and getting mad, and the past week has been this _whirlwind_ of emotions that's made me want to scream, or-I don't know--"

He never got to finish his impassioned speech, though. She'd gone and interrupted him with a kiss so unlike their first he almost didn't return it.

But then instinct took over and he cradled her face in his hands, basking in the feel of her mouth on his. It was enchanting to be so lost in another person: one split-second look into her eyes was tantamount to being unconscious.

He let his tongue dart out, tracing the curve of her lips before she gasped and offered him deeper access. In a haze of heady desire he acknowledged her gentle tug on his robes, urging him to locate a more private place to continue their…activity.

He obliged with enthusiasm, breaking their kiss just in time to hear her say:

"I love you, Draco Malfoy."

OOO


End file.
